A Tale
by hjp3697
Summary: Sherlock/John John is captured by mysterious enemies. They may have miscalculated the threat of John and Sherlock.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Author's Note: Alright, I'm going to be frank here. I haven't written fiction in quite a while. My strength is currently in articles and critiques, so I know there'll be room for improvement. But heck, you've gotta start somewhere and I love FanFiction. Hope y'all enjoy my vision and leave kindly critical reviews.

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Prologue:

Once upon a time I played make-believe  
I twirled and danced and climbed up trees

And when it rained I enjoyed heaven's drink  
I never stopped to pause and think, 'what must others think of me?'

This silly child spinning and leaping  
So carefree and and pleasure seeking

One day it will go away  
This happy, little creature of play

One day it will grow old  
And then we can look down our nose

At another of the universe's failed attempts  
To settle us with a joyous imp.

-Elle

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AN: Please, review and keep reading.


	2. Chapter 1

'Cold.'

'Ice cold.'

'I can barely feel my extremities, cold.'

These are the first thoughts that come to John H. Watson as he begins to enter into consciousness. Breathing out puffs of much-needed heat into the air he begins the struggle of peeling open his eyelids so he can regain some sense of place.

"...the f'ck... 'm I?" he questioned the empty space. After a few moments had passed he began to make out the general structure of his environment. It's was a simple white room with a single white bed and no apparent doors. John wiggled his toes and fingers a bit to ensure they _were_ still attached to the rest of his frozen body and functioning well enough, before beginning to pull himself up enough to rest on a forearm. From this slightly elevated position he could make out what appeared to be the room's only other feature: a window located just high enough up one wall for him to reach up and touch the glass pane, _if_ he were standing upright. Upon further examination he realized it must have been late into the night, based on the inky black view he had.

John tensed and pulled himself up into a crouch, before _slowly_ straightening up and testing his balance. Once he was more certain of his footing or at least that he wasn't going to collapse back into a frozen pile of limbs he took a few tentative steps towards the lone bed. There was nothing more upon it than a single crisp sheet, which he slowly peeled back to find more white fabric fitted over the mattress. He slipped his fingers under the mattress and lifted just enough to confirm that there was not a single thing underneath, which he might have considered useful to escape from his apparent captivity. He shivered. Grabbing the top sheet he pulled it over his shoulders and wrapped himself up in it, but moments later discarded it when he realized it was colder than his own body.

"...bloody joking," he muttered as he attempted to suppress his shivering enough to think. 'Where am I?'  
The last thing he could clearly remember was walking back to Baker street with his arms full of grocery bags and a rather large box of neoprene surgical gloves for Sherlock. It was getting late and beginning to look like it might rain, so he was contemplating hailing a cab when... things became foggy? No, he'd felt a sharp pinprick near the back of his neck and then his vision became very blurry, very quickly and then he didn't have time or ability to contemplate much of anything.

Reaching back, he felt along his neck until he came to the slightly raised skin where... 'I was... tranquilized like... some common _beast_.' He must have been tranquilized from a distance, because his sense for danger in his general vicinity was usually pretty good. Someone would have to have been hired to follow him and stay near enough to walk up and catch him in a casual enough manner to avoid too much public suspicion, before taking off with him in another undoubtedly _conveniently_ located vehicle. Before he was carted... here. Wherever here was meant to be. Growling in annoyance he mentally went through a quick breathing exercise -'in two three four five, out two three four five'-, before deciding he wasn't going to oblige his captors by just sitting and waiting for them to explain the situation. He placed his hands on the nearest wall and began to slowly look for any sort of indentations or signs of a damn _door_, which he intended to break down as soon as one was made plain to him. To his great displeasure, after walking halfway along the third wall he located a very slight difference in texture. He'd located the door. The _steel_... and likely very heavy door. Without a knob, handle or anything to pull, push or slide it open in any obvious direction. Well, he certainly wasn't breaking through that. Sighing in aggravation he turned back towards the barely reachable window. Then he looked at the bed resting in the center of the room. Then back towards the window. "I can work with that," he stated and proceeded to walk over and pit his weight against the heavy furniture. Fortunately the floor was tiled and smooth, so he with very little grunting he managed to push it to the far wall just beneath the lone window.

But... it was a bit eerie. Why would his kidnappers leave him with such a convenient tool? And what was with all the white? _Some_one seemed to have a color phobia.

He took one last look back at the door before setting his shoulders, climbing on top of the now slightly crumpled looking bed sheets and reaching up to feel around the window pane, hoping for something as simple as a common latch. He was shocked when he actually discovered one and with the slightest push upwards was able to release its hinge and push the wide window open.

"This is fucking creepy," he said to himself, before inhaling quickly and pulling himself up into the little space made for the window. Once he managed to haul his legs up he could just _barely_ crouch there.

Here's where the problem became clear. He wasn't on the ground floor of the building. Apparently he was somewhere near the fourth. "Well, this explains their neglect of the window." Not many people were willing to brave a descent from a fourth story window. Frowning he thought with disgust, 'It's almost like the _war_ was _training_ for the multitude of complications that accompanied living with Sherlock Holmes.' "Well, I come with a few less than predictable, complications of my own, unfortunately for you," he stated to his unknown enemies. He was answered by the howling wind and an ominously silent and starless night sky. He sent out a silent mental thanks for insanely, overprotective and zealously thorough older brothers (i.e. Mycroft Holmes) that went out of their way to seal the special (military) records of their sibling's flatmates'. In the _hypothetical_ event that said sibling's flatmate happened to get kidnapped, the potential villains could never fully know with whom they're dealing or their level of relevant experience. 'Unless, Moriarty is connected to this,' John thought grimly with another shiver as he further examined his position and surroundings.

He exhaled a steady stream of condensate. There was no clear path of footholds below. However, there was a rather perilous looking pole just a few feet from his perch on the window. _Just_ close enough to be tempting.

Decided, he slowly prepared his muscles for the leap and his mind for associated height risk by counting evenly back from ten. Then with a leap of determination he abandoned the relative safety of his window ledge to fly the short distance to the pole.

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T.B.C.

AN: Please, review. It's incredibly motivating.


	3. Chapter 2

AN: Many thanks to **johnsarmylady** and **Lover of Emotions **for their reviews. They were very motivational and the result is this chapter. :) Please, keep up the reviews!

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John hung over several perilous feet of open air for less than a second, until he wrapped a single hand and leg firmly around the pole. He quickly used both muscle and momentum to swing another leg around and wrapped his other hand around the pole just above the first. If it had been comprised of glass the sheer force of his grip would have crushed it. Fortunately, it was standard wood. John hung on. His escape wasn't sealed quite yet, though.

'Okay. Down. A bit at a time,' he soothed himself. He would slowly descend to what he visually estimated was just above the level of the first floor and then push off to land on the balls of his feet in a 45 degree partial squat, to absorb the shock. Crossing one hand and foot over the other he managed to complete the first part of his task with military precision. Then came the matter of the second leap. His muscles quivered from overuse. Climbing out of windows, jumping onto poles and maintaining the consistently tense grip necessary for a slow climb down was pushing them to their limit. They were already screaming from the sudden strain. But, he had a goal to reach.

He forced his arm and leg muscles to tighten just a bit more and then pushed his weight outwards, away from the pole and released his body's grip of it. He coiled his body into an S-shape and fell the remaining ten-twelve feet to the ground where he landed firmly on the balls of his feet in a crouch, then promptly lost the remaining battle with balance and fell forward onto his knees. They didn't appreciate the treatment and sent his nerves the message of pain.

John grunted and released first an "oomph", followed by an "uunnnh". Slightly less graceful than he'd envisioned his landing, but at least all of his bones were whole and unbroken.

He sighed and looked up, out at the landscape that greeted him. He'd landed on a flat, open stretch of densely packed soil. There wasn't a single light and very little visible other than the rather ordinary, if eerily out of place looking building to his back and the pole he'd just climbed down to his left, telling him that he was at one of the far edges of the building. Then, he strained his eyes a bit and began to make out a thick forest of trees several yards ahead. Coming to a quick decision, he forced his body to stand up... well not _exactly_ tall at just 5'5'', _but_ sturdy. He glanced back up at the fourth story window he'd left hanging open, before making his mad leap. All that ran through his mind, was a mantra: 'forward, _forward_'.

So, he turned away from the window and back towards the dense, dark forest ahead. He walked forwards across the open landscape the few yards, until he reached the edge of the treeline. He listened for anything other than the wind and tried to peer into the trees for what he expected would be a trap, considering his relatively simple escape, but there was nothing. So, he continued to make his way _forward _into the darkness.

He walked for well over an hour under the veil of heavy branches, until he reached an area where the trees began to thin out and he could make out what looked like a lonely road. The other side of which contained another copse of trees. His sense of location was nowhere near Sherlock's, but he was familiar enough with traveling the worlds foreign streets to recognize a road that stretched a few miles from _this_ one, which looked... unending. "I'm _literally_ in the middle of... _nowhere,_" he _didn't_ whine to himself. If he walked along the road itself he could be discovered by the very captors that had drugged and dragged him out here to begin with. But... if he walked just at the _edge_ of the forest, between the road and the trees he'd have the ability to _choose_ to either duck behind the nearest convenient tree or flag down a relatively normal, non-threatening, non-_villainous_ looking vehicle. He considered that his kidnappers, whoever they were, were probably relying on standard cars and/or vans. But if he was fortunate enough to come across a lorry he could probably, safely assume that it was just that. A passing commercial vehicle. Then sighing, he began walking along the treeline in what _felt_ like _right_ direction.

He forced himself to walk a few miles, rest a minute and repeat the cycle again. But, he refused to resist actually succumbing to his body's demand for sleep at any point. His mind and body both, were exhausted and he was beginning to stumble every few yards over his own heavy feet. It felt like he'd been walking and stumbling all night and he was just slowing down for his third _rest_ when he froze suddenly. He could hear a vehicle coming down the road from behind him. He ducked down low and crouched behind a nearby tree to watch for its approach. Soon enough the headlight beams of lorry appeared in the distance. His combat senses told him it was safe, but he stayed in his position. As it drove closer he could begin to make out some sort of design on its side, which was probably the logo of a local business and likely the drivers destination. Understanding that it was a risk, but might also be his last opportunity to make some real headway and get home he made his decision. A burst of adrenaline shot through his system, as he burst from behind the tree, raced for the open road and waved his arms in an attempt to flag down the driver. "Heeeey, heeeeey," he shouted. He didn't stop until he'd reached the middle of the road and saw the lorry start to decelerate a few yards short of him. He dropped his arms, panted for breath for a moment and then steeling himself walked up to the driver's side.

The driver stared down at him with a wide, sharp smile.

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T.B.C.

AN: I'm planning to add chapter 3, in which Sherlock will make his appearance, by either tomorrow (9/9) or Monday (9/10).

Please, leave kind critiques and general thoughts. I really do appreciate them and will respond. :)


	4. Chapter 3

AN 2: There's been an addition to this scene. Please, review.

AN: Don't own _Sherlock _or the beautifully written _Dark_ Series (_Dark Fire_, here) by Christine Feehan from which I discovered this scene.

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The man was about forty, large and muscular. He grinned widely at him, his eyes seeming to hold a hint of... worry? "Something, wrong sir?," he asked. "You could say that," John breathed heavily and placed both hands on his hips. "I need a ride... ?" John left the unspoken question hanging between them. "Sure, pop in." He pushed a pile of clutter from the seat to the floor, as John joined him in the cabin. "It's a mess, but what the heck?" "Thanks. The sky looked like it was about to turn nasty on me." And it did. The smell of rain drifted on the wind and thick, towering clouds were floating towards them from the direction the lorry had come.

The man squinted up at the night sky through the windshield. "Crazy. The weather reports said it would be clear. Maybe those clouds will just drift right pass us. I'm Sean." He stuck out his hand. "John," he replied and slipped his hand into the other man's for a brief shake, but the moment he touched him, his stomach lurched and he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck and arms.

He was certain he imagined Sean's meaty thumb purposefully trail the inside of his wrist and palm when he let go and moved to put the lorry back into gear, as he fixed his eyes back on the road. John tried to shake it off the itch, relax and settle in his seat, while he fought his rising nausea and imagination. He needed to focus on how he would get home once they reached somewhere he could call for a cab. However, the moment his head hit the back of the seat, his exhaustion finally caught up with him and his eyelids kept drifting shut.

Sean glanced at him with a concerned frown etched across his face. "Are you sick? I could take you to the nearest clinic. I think there should be a small town a bit further up this road."

John tried to regain something close to his earlier level of alertness and shook his now pounding head in the negative, not trying to speak. He knew he was pale and could feel small beads of sweat perspiration dotting his chest and forehead. "I jogged for awhile before you came along. I think I just... overdid it." But he knew that wasn't the only reason for his discomfort. He was too tired to pay attention to the warning he could now barely sense in the back of his mind. Something wasn't right and the feeling was increasing the longer he sat there, but he didn't think he could bother to ask Sean to pull over or even _think about _getting out to _walk_ again. He was so _tired_. _Bone weary_.

"Got to sleep, then. I'm used to driving alone, anyway," Sean advised. "I usually have the radio on, but if it bothers you I can manage without it." "Not going t' bother me," John mumbled. His eyelids would not stay up no matter how hard he tried to stay awake. He was truly exhausted. Weariness continued to invade his body, deadening his limbs, so at last he gave up the fruitless fight and allowed his eyes to slip closed.

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Sean drove for fifteen minutes, sending quick, covert glances at his hitchhiker. His heart was pounding rapidly away within his chest. His passenger was small with a boy-next-door aura and cornflower blue eyes and he'd fallen right into his lap. He never let such opportunities escape him. Glancing at his watch he was pleased to see that he was ahead of his schedule. He was meeting his boss in a few hours, but had more than enough time to indulge his fantasies with the tempting blonde.

The clouds above thickened and darkened further, occasionally issuing small veins of lightning and a rumble of thunder. They were dark enough to blot out the sun, should they remain when it began its ascent in a short time. He watched for the dense, patch of trees closest to the road as he came around a sharp curve so he could pull off into some measure of relative privacy and remain undetected or at least mostly ignored by any potential passing vehicles.

John jerked awake when a hand fumbled clumsily at his jeans. His eyes flew open. Sean was leaning across him, tearing at his clothes. He punched him as hard as he was able to in the small confines of the lorry, partially out of pure shock. But John was weak from exhaustion and little sleep and Sean was very big and very awake. His enormous fist clipped him behind the ear, then smashed into his left eye. For a brief moment John saw stars, then everything went black and he slid farther down into his seat.

Sean's mouth covered his, wet and slimy. Again he mustered the will to struggle against his attacker, pulling at his greasy hair and trying to shove his body away from him. "Stop! _Fuck_ you! _STOP_!" he shouted.

A thick fist pounded into his weakened muscles over and over, while another caught and felt like it attempted to crush all the bones in his wrist. He was in _so_ much _pain_, he groaned his protests.  
"You're a whore. Why else would you be walking the road? Why get in here with me? You wanted this. I know you, you did. That's okay, baby, I _like_ it rough. Fight me all you want. It's perfect. Exactly. What. I. Want," he panted his vile breath into John's face.

His knee pressed hard against John's thigh, holding him down so that he could tear at the waistband of his jeans. John's hand found the door handle and he wrenched at it, as he ripped his wrist away and jackknifed out onto the ground. He scrambled to pick himself up and run in any direction _away_.

Overhead the skies suddenly opened up and the dark clouds emptied on them like a waterfall. He stumbled and felt Sean grab his leg from behind, then quickly flipped him over so hard it drove the precious little air from his lungs.

Lightning flashed, sizzled and arced from cloud to cloud. He saw _that_ clearly as he stared up at the sky. Rain fell in silver sheets drenching them both. His vision blurred and he felt cold dread seep deep into his soul as what little adrenaline he had left from when he was first shocked into the waking world began to desert him as Sean pummeled him repeatedly with his large, clenched fist. "Feels good, feels so good, doesn't it?" he rasped from above him with his eyes filled with ugly hatred, hard and glaring down at him with mad triumph.

John fought him with every ounce of remaining strength he possessed, kicking at him when he could get a leg free, beating at him until his fists were bruised and aching. None of his efforts were working. The rain continued to pour down on them and thunder growled, seeming to shake the very ground.

There was no warning at all. One moment Sean's great weight was pressing down on his body, the next he was jerked back by some unseen force. He heard the thud as his assailant was thrown and landed hard against the lorry. Feeling suddenly overwhelmed by nausea, he tried to roll over and off of his back. Every muscle hurt. He managed to make it to his knees before he vomited violently, again and again. His felt his left eye swelling already and with the rain and wind it was hard to see what was happening.

Then there was a deeply disturbing _crack_. John recognized the sound of _bone_ breaking. He half crawled, half dragged himself toward a tree and unsteadily braced himself against its trunk. Then arms surrounded him, drawing him towards a solid chest. He instantly reacted by struggling and swinging his heavy limbs in renewed panic as he shouted in anger and despair.

"You are safe," a familiar voice crooned softly, battling down the beast that was _his_ own rage. "No one is going to hurt you. Be calm, John. Calm. You are safe with me." At that moment John didn't care how he'd done it. Sherlock had saved him from his crazed rapist. He clutched the sides of his jacket between his hands and burrowed close, trying to shrink away from the terrible brutality and just disappear into the shelter of his warm body. Sherlock held onto him.

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T.B.C. very soon, b/c I'm on a roll. Next chapter will be up by Friday (9/14) at the absolute latest.

AN: Thoughts? Send me a review. :)


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